Killer Within
by Bilbisaurus
Summary: In an alternate universe, Cara Hughes is a young tribute from District 11, fighting not just for her own life in the 74th Hunger Games, but the life of a simple-minded boy to whom she owes a great debt. AU, OC.


**A/N: Beta'd by the lovely RennFlight. Reviews would be great. Good or bad, send them in! :)**

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Chapter 1

The day of the reaping is warm, with a cool southerly breeze casting a chill through my body. I stir and roll over in my bed, willing the sun to dip below the horizon and reward me with a few extra hours in bed. No such luck. I brace my hands against the rough surface of the blanket draped across my body and push myself up into a sitting position, letting the blanket fall away. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and take a few deep breaths, rubbing my eyes the way a tired child would. I brace my hands against the bed again and stand up, padding gently across the wooden floorboards to my tiny kitchen, which also serves as a dining room. The house seems more desolate than most days, and my brow creases in a frown, but then I purse my lips and shake the thought away. It doesn't matter. Maybe any other day of the year, when work quotas and evening trade are the matters for me to worry about it would matter. But not today.

I prepare a simple meal of the dark, crescent shaped rolls filled with seeds common in the district. Though it is not much, it is all I can keep down, and besides the bread is rich and full of flavour. Once I'm done I make my way to the tiny tub situated in a small room closed off from the rest of the house. I bathe quickly, and dress in the clothes I laid out last night specially for the reaping - a simple form fitting white dress that falls to my knees. I arrange my long, dark brown hair into a milkmaid braid, with a few wisps of hair allowed to fall around the curves of my temples, my cheekbones. I trot over and examine myself in the dusty mirror that leans against one wall. The white is almost blinding against the deep brown of my hair and skin. I turn away, blinking, and make my way outside. The reaping will begin soon, and to be late is to face severe punishment at the hands of the merciless peacekeepers.

A small shiver runs through me at the thought but I shake it off as I sign into the square, then quickly make my way over to where the other fifteen-year olds have gathered. I recognise a few of them, but the others are unknown to me. With District 11's population of about thirteen thousand, I don't find this surprising. They offer me tense nods and I return the gesture, before we all turn automatically to the stage. The mayor sits in one of the four seats arrange neatly on stage. He is a short, broad-shouldered man who has not yet slipped into the clutches of old age. The two chairs next to him are occupied by the previous victors from District 11, Seeder and Chaff. The fourth chair is empty, and I begin to wonder where its occupant may be, before I see her bounce enthusiastically onto the stage. This year, like most before it, our escort is wearing a mint green wig, but this year she has ramped up her outfit, sporting an electric blue suit, with a pattern of vivid orange flowers sewn neatly onto it. While my main impulse is to roll my eyes at the fashions of the Capitol, my chest involuntarily tightens at the sight of her. I tell myself to calm down, but the vice around my chest only pinches harder, making it difficult to breathe. I pat the sweat from my palms on my dress before I realise the colour I'm wearing, and jerk my hands back as if I've been burnt. Instead, I clench my fists and try to occupy my thoughts with the musings of days spent with my father when I was younger, before his life was taken cruelly before my eyes.

The mayor steps forward and proceeds to recite the history of Panem in his dull voice. I find my thoughts drifting off once again to my father, and I'm confronted by the fact that this is my first reaping without a family. There is no one standing waiting, cut off from me by a length of rope, concern for my safety the only thought occupying their mind. It's only me. I feel a stab of pain in my chest at the realisation before I bring myself back to reality. Our escort steps up delicately to the microphone, her hands clasped in an odd manner in front of her. She clears her throat and begins to speak in the affected Capitol accent, welcoming us all to the reaping.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" she says in her shrill, high-pitched voice, and I have a hard time not wincing. "How about we start with the ladies?" She smiles prettily, expecting no answer to her non-question. I'm surprised, as the boys are usually picked first, but it doesn't matter much. The end result is the same. She prances over to the crystal ball containing the names, swirling her fingers around the slips of paper for quite some time before she pulls one out with a flourish. She crosses back over to the microphone and reads the name out quickly, and with more enthusiasm than any sane person could muster in this situation.

"Cara Hughes!"

I reel back as if I've been slapped. My name. A small cry begins to leave my lips but I choke it back. I can feel the blood slowly draining from my face but I force myself to take slow, careful steps up towards the stage. Though my instinct is to do the opposite, I keep my head held high. My fists are still clenched by my sides but I don't relax them until I'm standing on the stage, the escort peering at me with amber coloured eyes. I jerk my face away from hers and turn towards the crowd, who are watching me with expressions ranging from relief to pity. I force myself to take deep, calm breathes as the crowd offers me scattered applause. I didn't expect anything more. Our escort smiles her freakish, too wide grin before she digs her hand into the ball containing the boy's names, and reads the name written carefully onto the slip of paper.

"Paul Cassar!"

A chill runs through my body, turning my veins to ice, as Paul steps forward from the crowd. I can see him walking with slow, short steps, as if he is almost uncertain as to where it is he is meant to be. I feel liking crying, or vomiting, or possibly both. Why him? _Oh god,_ why, why him? Since the terrible accident four years ago that so nearly ended in tragedy, I've only seen Paul occasionally, working the fields, and know he is a simple-minded fellow, with the body of a man and mind of a child, but with a kindness in his heart that is unbeaten by anyone else I have ever known. It's not until the escort instructs us to shake hands that I turn and meet eyes with Paul, something I have not done since I was a child. I find, with the awareness one gains only after having all childhood innocence destroyed once and for all, that his eyes are filled with a profound sadness and raw pain that seems impossible for someone his age. He offers me one of his large, dark-skinned hands, and I take it, my tiny hand getting lost in his. He shakes it gently, eyes lingering a moment afterwards before we let go, and my connection with him is lost he drops his gaze. I turn to face the crowd again, seeing genuine pain in their eyes at the sight of the two tributes standing side by side on the stage. I sense rather than see the wandering attention of the huge boy beside me focus on the crowd.

"I present to you our tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games, from District 11, Paul Cassar and Cara Hughes!"


End file.
